Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Let me tell you about my master plan,” he said as they sat down for breakfast.

  “Does it begin with making love in the corridor?”

  “No, but let’s do that every Friday night. I’ll stand out in the rain.”

  “And I’ll tell you to go home.”

  “Home. That reminds me, my master plan. Next weekend I want to take you down to the West Country so you can meet my parents.”

  “I’m so worried they won’t—”

  “Think I’m good enough for you? They’d be right. I suspect the real problem will be convincing your father that I’ll ever be good enough for you, but I’ll go and see him the moment he’s back in England.”

  “What will you say to him?”

  “I’ve fallen in love with your daughter, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

  “But you haven’t even proposed.”

  “I would have done at Lord’s, but I knew you’d only laugh at me.”

  “He won’t laugh. He’ll only ask you one thing,” she said softly.

  “And what will that be, my darling?”

  Her words were barely audible. “Have you slept with my daughter?”

  “If he does, I’ll tell him the truth.”

  “Then he’ll either kill you, or me, or both of us.”

  Seb took her back in his arms. “He’ll come around once he sees how much we care for each other.”

  “Not if my mother’s already chosen a suitable man for me to marry, and the two families have come to an understanding. Because just before my father flew to India, I gave him my word I was still a virgin.”

  * * *

  During the week, Seb spoke to his mother and father, and they were not only delighted by his news, but couldn’t wait to meet their future daughter-in-law. Priya was heartened by their response, but couldn’t hide how anxious she was about how her father would react. He phoned her on Thursday to say he was on his way back to England and had some exciting news to share with her.

  “And we have some exciting news to share with him,” said Seb, trying to reassure her.

  * * *

  On Friday evening, Seb left the bank early, only stopping off on the way to buy another bunch of roses. He then continued across town to the Fulham Road to pick up Priya before they traveled down to the West Country together. He couldn’t wait to introduce her to his parents. But first he must thank Jenny for all she’d done to make it possible, and this time he would give the roses to her. He parked outside the flat, jumped out of the car and rang the doorbell. It was some time before the door opened, and when it did he felt his legs give way. Jenny stood there shaking uncontrollably, a red swelling on her cheek.

  “What’s happened?” he demanded.

  “They’ve taken her away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her father and brother turned up about an hour ago. She put up a fight, and I tried to help, but the two of them dragged her out of the flat, threw her in the back of a car and drove off.”

  18

  “IT WAS GOOD of you to see us at such short notice, Varun,” said Giles. “Especially on a Saturday morning.”

  “My pleasure,” said the High Commissioner. “My country will always be in your debt for the role you played as foreign minister when Mrs. Gandhi visited the United Kingdom. But how can I help, Lord Barrington? You said on the phone the matter was urgent.”

  “My nephew, Sebastian Clifton, has a personal problem he’d like your advice on.”

  “Of course. If I can assist in any way, I will be happy to do so,” he said, turning to face the young man.

  “I’ve come up against what seems to be an intractable problem, sir, and I don’t know what to do about it.” Mr. Sharma nodded. “I’ve fallen in love with an Indian girl, and I want to marry her.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “But she’s a Hindu.”

  “As are eighty percent of my countrymen, Mr. Clifton, myself included. Therefore should I assume the problem is not the girl, but her parents?”

  “Yes, sir. Although Priya wants to marry me, her parents have chosen someone else to be her husband, someone she hasn’t even met.”

  “That’s not uncommon in my country, Mr. Clifton. I didn’t meet my wife until my mother had selected her. But if you think it might help, I will be happy to have a word with Priya’s parents and try to plead your case.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. I’d be most grateful.”

  “However, I must warn you that if the family has settled the contract with the other parties concerned, my words may well fall on deaf ears. But please,” continued the High Commissioner as he picked up a notepad from the table by his side, “tell me everything you can about Priya, before I decide how to approach the problem.”

  “Yesterday evening, Priya and I had planned to drive down to the West Country so she could meet my parents. When I arrived at her flat to pick her up, I found that she had, quite literally, been kidnapped by her father and brother.”

  “May I know their names?”

  “Sukhi and Simran Ghuman.”

  The High Commissioner shifted uneasily in his chair. “Mr. Ghuman is one of India’s leading industrialists. He has very strong business and political connections, and I should add that he also has a reputation for ruthless efficiency. I choose my words carefully, Mr. Clifton.”

  “But if Priya is still in England, surely we can prevent him from taking her back to India against her will? She is, after all, twenty-six years old.”

  “I doubt if she’s still in this country, Mr. Clifton, because I know Mr. Ghuman has a private jet. But even if she were, proving a father is holding his child against her wishes would involve a long legal process. I have experienced seven such cases since I took up this post, and although I’m convinced all seven young women wished to remain in this country, four of them were back in India long before they could be questioned, and the other three, when interviewed, said they no longer wanted to claim asylum. But if you wish to pursue the matter, I can call the chief inspector at Scotland Yard who is responsible for such cases, though I should warn you that Mr. Ghuman will be well aware of his legal rights and it won’t be the first time he’s taken the law into his own hands.”

  “Are you saying there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Not a great deal,” admitted the High Commissioner. “And I only wish I could be more helpful.”

  “It was good of you to spare us so much of your time, Varun,” said Giles as he stood up.

  “My pleasure, Giles,” said the High Commissioner. The two men shook hands. “Don’t hesitate to be in touch if you feel I can be of any assistance.”

  As Giles and Seb left Varun Sharma’s office and walked out on to the Strand, Giles said, “I’m so sorry, Seb. I know exactly what you’re going through, but I’m not sure what you can do next.”

  “Go home and try to get on with my life. But thank you, Uncle Giles, you couldn’t have done more.”

  Giles watched as his nephew strode off in the direction of the City, and wondered what he really planned to do next, because his home was in the opposite direction. Once Seb was out of sight, Giles headed back up the steps and into the High Commissioner’s office.

  * * *

  “Rachel, I need five hundred pounds in rupees, an open-ended return ticket to Bombay and an Indian visa. If you call Mr. Sharma’s secretary at the High Commission, I’m sure she’ll speed the whole process up. Oh, and I’ll need fifteen minutes with the chairman before I leave.”

  “But you have several important appointments next week, including—”

  “Clear my diary for the next few days. I’ll phone in every morning, so you can keep me fully briefed.”

  “This must be one hell of a deal you’re trying to close.”

  “The biggest of my life.”

  * * *

  The High Commissioner listened carefully to what his secretary had to say.

  “Your nephew has just ca
lled and applied for a visa,” he said after putting the phone down. “Do I speed it up, or slow it down?”

  “Speed it up,” said Giles, “although I admit I’m quite anxious about the boy. Like me, he’s a hopeless romantic, and at the moment he’s thinking with his heart and not his head.”

  “Don’t worry, Giles,” said Varun. “I’ll see that someone keeps an eye on him while he’s in India and tries to make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble, especially as Sukhi Ghuman is involved. No one needs that man as an enemy.”

  “But when I met him at Lord’s, he seemed quite charming.”

  “That’s half the reason he’s so successful.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t until later that evening, when Seb had fastened his seat-belt and the plane had taken off, that he realized he didn’t have a plan. All he knew for certain was that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if this journey just might have made a difference. The only piece of useful information he picked up from the chief steward during the flight was the name of the best hotel in Bombay.

  Seb was dozing when the captain announced that they were about to begin their descent into Bombay. He looked out of the cabin window to see a vast, sprawling mass of tiny houses, shacks and tenement blocks, filling every inch of space. He could only wonder if Bombay had any planning laws.

  As he left the aircraft and walked down the steps, he was immediately overwhelmed by the oppressive humidity, and once he’d entered the airport, he quickly discovered the local pace of everything—slow or stop. Having his passport checked, the longest queue he’d ever seen; waiting for his luggage to be unloaded from the hold, he nearly fell asleep; being held up by customs, although he only had one suitcase; and then trying to find a taxi when there wasn’t an official rank—they just seemed to come and go.

  When Seb finally set off for the city, he discovered why no one was ever booked for speeding in Bombay, because the car rarely got out of first gear. And when he asked about air-conditioning, the driver wound down his window. He stared out of the open window at the little shops—no roofs, no doors, trading everything from spare tires to mangos—while the citizens of Bombay went about their business. Some were dressed in smart suits that hung loosely on their bodies and ties that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Square Mile, while others wore spotless loincloths, bringing to mind the image of Gandhi, one of his father’s heroes.

  Once they’d reached the outskirts of the city, they came to a halt. Seb had experienced traffic jams in London, New York and Tokyo, but they were Formula One racetracks compared to Bombay. Broken-down lorries parked in the fast lane, over-crowded rickshaws on the inside lane, and sacred cows munched happily away in the center lane, while old women crossed the road seemingly unaware what it had originally been built for.

  A little boy was standing in the middle of the road carrying a stack of paperback books. He walked up to the car, tapped on the window and smiled in at Sebastian.

  “Harold Robbins, Robert Ludlum and Harry Clifton,” he said, giving him a beaming grin. “All half price!”

  Sebastian handed him a ten-rupee note and said, “Harry Clifton.”

  The boy produced his father’s latest book. “We all love William Warwick,” he said, before moving on to the next car. Would his father believe him?

  It took another hour before they drew up outside the Taj Mahal Hotel, by which time Seb was exhausted and soaked with perspiration.

  When he stepped inside the hotel, he entered another world and was quickly transported back to the present day.

  “How long will you be staying with us, sir?” asked a tall, elegant man in a long blue coat, as Seb signed the registration form.

  “I’m not sure,” said Seb, “but at least two or three days.”

  “Then I’ll leave the booking open-ended. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

  “Can you recommend a reliable car hire firm?”

  “If it’s a car you require, sir, the hotel will happily supply you with a chauffeur-driven Ambassador.”

  “Will it be possible to keep the same driver for the whole visit?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “He’ll need to speak English.”

  “In this hotel, sir, even the cleaners speak English.”

  “Of course, I apologize. I have one more request—could he possibly be a Hindu?”

  “Not a problem, sir. I believe I have the ideal person to meet all your requirements, and I can recommend him highly, because he’s my brother.” Seb laughed. “And when would you want him to start?”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”

  “Excellent. My brother’s name is Vijay and he’ll be waiting for you outside the main entrance at eight.” The receptionist raised a hand and a bellboy appeared. “Take Mr. Clifton to room 808.”

  19

  WHEN SEBASTIAN LEFT his hotel at eight o’clock the following morning, he spotted a young man standing beside a white Ambassador. The moment he saw Seb heading toward him, he opened the back door.

  “I’ll sit in the front with you,” said Seb.

  “Of course, sir,” said Vijay. Once he was behind the wheel he asked, “Where would you like to go, sir?”

  Seb handed him an address. “How long will it take?”

  “That depends, sir, on how many traffic lights are working this morning and how many cows are having their breakfast.”

  The answer turned out to be just over an hour, although the milometer indicated that they had covered barely three miles.

  “It’s the house on the right, sir,” said Vijay. “Do you want me to drive up to the front door?”

  “No,” said Seb as they passed the gates of a house that was so large it might have been mistaken for a country club. He admired Priya for never having mentioned her father’s wealth.

  Vijay parked in an isolated spot, down a side road from where they could see anyone coming in or out of the gates, while they would be unlikely to be noticed.

  “Are you very important?” asked Vijay an hour later.

  “No,” said Seb. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because there’s a police car parked just down the road, and it hasn’t moved since we arrived.”

  Seb was puzzled but tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, even though Cedric Hardcastle had taught him many years ago to always be wary of coincidences.

  They remained seated in the car for most of the day, during which time several cars and a van passed in and out of the gates. There was no sign of Priya, although at one point a large Mercedes left the grounds with Mr. Ghuman seated in the back talking to a younger man Seb assumed must be his son.

  In between the comings and goings, Vijay gave Seb a further insight into the Hindu religion, and he began to realize just how difficult it must have been for Priya even to consider defying her parents.

  He was about to call it a day when two men, one carrying a camera, the other a briefcase, came strolling down the drive from the house and stopped outside the main gate. They were dressed smartly but casually, and had a professional air about them. They hailed a taxi and climbed into the back.

  “Follow that cab, and don’t lose them.”

  “It’s quite difficult to lose anyone in a city where bicycles overtake you,” said Vijay as they progressed slowly back toward the city center. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a large Victorian building that proclaimed above its front door: the Times of India.

  “Wait here,” said Sebastian. He got out of the car and waited until the two men had entered the building before following them inside. One of them waved to a girl on the reception desk as they headed toward a bank of lifts. Sebastian made his way over to the desk, smiled at the girl and said, “How embarrassing. I can’t remember the name of the journalist who’s just getting into the lift.”

  She glanced around as the lift door closed. “Samraj Khan. He writes a society column for the Sunday paper. But I’m not sure who that was with him.” Sh
e turned to her colleague.

  “He’s freelance. Works for Premier Photos, I think. But I don’t know his name.”

  “Thanks,” said Sebastian, before making his way back to the car.

  “Where now?” asked Vijay.

  “Back to the hotel.”

  “That police car is still following us,” said Vijay, as he eased into a long line of traffic. “So you’re either very important, or very dangerous,” he suggested, displaying a broad grin.

  “Neither,” said Seb. Like Vijay, he was puzzled. Did Uncle Giles’s influence stretch this far, or were the police working for the Ghumans?

  Once Seb was back in his room, he asked the switchboard to get Premier Photos on the line. He had his story well prepared by the time the operator called back. He asked to be put through to the photographer who was covering the Sukhi Ghuman story.

  “Do you mean the wedding?”

  “Yes, the wedding,” said Sebastian, hating the word.

  “That’s Rohit Singh. I’ll put you through.”

  “Rohit Singh.”

  “Hi, my name is Clifton. I’m a freelance journalist from London, and I’ve been assigned to cover Priya Ghuman’s wedding.”

  “But it’s not for another six weeks.”

  “I know, but my magazine wants background material for a color spread we’re doing, and I wondered if you’d be able to supply some photographs to go with my piece.”

  “We’d need to meet and discuss terms. Where are you staying?”

  “The Taj.”

  “Would eight o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?”

  “Look forward to seeing you then.”

  No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again.

  “While you were on the line, sir, your secretary called. She asked if you would ring a Mr. Bishara at the bank urgently. She gave me the number. Shall I try and get him on the line?”

  “Yes please,” said Seb, then put the phone down and waited. He checked his watch, and hoped Hakim hadn’t already gone to lunch. The phone rang.